Maya slipped the thin test strip into her glucometer and pricked her finger. She watched the numbers count up on the small screen. Tap. Tap. She tucked the device into her bag alongside a juice box and granola bar.
She grabbed her jacket and stepped outside. The lake shimmered beyond the kitchen window as she began her hike up the pine-dusted trail.
Maya's steps grew steady despite the slight shake in her hands. She paused at the first bend, opened her bag, and popped a glucose tablet into her mouth.
A frog croaked from the reeds below. She checked her phone—a photo of her daughter, asleep on the couch, grinning with a mouthful of popcorn—and smiled.
Maya reached the old wooden dock and found her daughter already there, balancing a crooked paper boat on the water's edge. 'Look, Mama—it's shaped like a star!' the little one called out.
Maya knelt, her fingers brushing the damp wood. She watched as the boat tilted, flipped, and sank with a soft plink. They both stared.
Then Maya said, 'Again.' The daughter giggled so hard she fell backward into the grass. Maya's heart thought: this is what matters. This moment.
Maya helped her daughter rebuild the boat, folding corners and pressing seams with careful fingers. Her glucose was steady now, the juice box empty beside them.
The sun dipped low, painting the water in stripes of gold and orange. Maya rested her hand on her daughter's shoulder as they waded back through the trees.
Maya set the star-shaped boat on the windowsill, where it caught the last light of day. She wiped a smudge of lake water from the glass and looked out at the darkening trees.
Her bag rested by the door—glucometer, juice boxes, glucose tablets, all in their places. The house was quiet. Maya hummed a soft tune as she padded toward bed.
Maya looked out at the lake one more time. Tomorrow, she would come back. Tomorrow, they would sail again.